Page 97 of Three Reckless Words

It’s just like that British baking show except this is Archer Rory.

Archer, with his huge tattooed arms and a business that’s doing scarily well.

Archer, with his dark stubble and midnight-blue eyes and thick hair.

Archer, who mysteriously looks like he’s equally at home in a suit working at a desk or wearing a t-shirt while he beats up idiots like Holden.

ThatArcher made flipping pizza dough from scratch.

“Surprised?” he asks when I continue staring at the dough like it has ancient Sumerian written all over it.

“Maybe?” I laugh and force my shoulders to relax.

Hardly the first time since I showed up.

The things I felt when he walked into the room while Colt and his friends were spouting off about the hornets…

Even now, the butterflies storming my belly haven’t settled down one bit. Neither have the indecent, intrusive thoughts that keep bleeding in every time I look at him.

He stands beside me now, our elbows almost touching, chopping an onion with near professional precision on a bamboo cutting board.

“I’m a single dad, so I’d better know a thing or two about food,” he tells me. “And when I say Colt was fussy as a kid, I mean it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and not like most kids are. You know, the ones who turn down their veggies and live on nuggets and mac and cheese.”

“I’m familiar, yes.” When I was a kid, classic box mac ‘n’ cheese was my favorite. My mom and her hired nannies had a fight on their hands to get me to eatanythingelse, including pizza, ironically enough. “What did he like?”

“Grapes. The boy used to eat them by the vine. He’d eat fries, but only if I made them myself with seasonings he liked. Bread, he’d only eat when it was warm out of the oven. Never knew kids could be so damn fussy.”

I smile. “What did you do?”

“Got real good at making bread for one. I also found ways to expand his palate, sneaking grape jelly into his bread and pairing it with healthier stuff.” He snorts. “The first few years were rough.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” I say quietly. “He’s a good kid, though.”

“I’m glad that phase ended. Now I could feed him nothing but chips and salsa and he wouldn’t even notice. The kid’s a bottomless pit, he’ll clean out my groceries in two days if I’m not careful.”

I hide a smirk as I sprinkle flour on the counter and spread the dough.

Archer finishes chopping and he throws the onions in a pan, soon followed by chopped tomatoes, garlic, and a variety of herbs I don’t catch.

I barely think to hand him the containers and pick up a few scraps for the trash. I’m too busy staring at him working.

Open-mouthed, blank-eyed staring.

There’s nothing else in my brain exceptArcher.

The man can cook. No one who wields a knife with his gracefulness is an amateur in the kitchen.

“How about you, Winnie?” he asks. “What’s your favorite food?”

“Um, pizza?” I say it without thinking. Just as our elbows brush again and I have to focus very hard on not making an embarrassing noise.

Here I am in Archer’s kitchen, making pizza.

There’s an entire expanse of counter space the size of the Arctic Circle around us, but he’s still close enough to touch,cooking up a tomato sauce on the enormous stove with his massive back turned.

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